Been a day of ugly truths and contemplative realities etched in slate. Tired of thinking. Blocked in a new piece with finger paint in oil: nothin but black. Problem is that this has a bit of a timeline for completion, which means no experimenting with where I'm going, but must stay with where I've been. Little frustrating, actually. Not that anythings final or certain; story of life at the moment. Consistency, however inappropriately distributed, is still somewhat unconsciously stabilizing.